The Laurentine Spy (18 page)

“So?”

“So!” It was a shout that echoed in the chamber. He swung around. “You said you would stop it!”

“That’s no longer possible,” the Guardian said. “It will draw too much attention to you.”

Breath hissed between Athan’s teeth. “And so I must marry?”

“For a few days, yes.”

Anger surged inside him. He wanted to grab the man by the throat and shake him until his neck snapped.

“Once the code book’s copied, you and Three will leave together. I guarantee safe passage out of Corhona for you both.”

If the Spycatcher doesn’t unmask me. If the guards don’t catch me.

Athan cast a glance at the storeroom door. It was shut. “Stop the marriage and I’ll stay.”

“No. People will talk. What will you say if the Spycatcher asks you about it?”

Words of relief would spill from him.
I want a Laurentine wife. A wife with spirit. Who’ll enjoy the marriage bed.
“But if I sire a child—”

“It won’t happen. A few days’ marriage. A week at the most.”

“But—”

“If you want Three to be safe, you will do this.”

Athan exhaled through his teeth.

“Do it for her,” the Guardian said.

Athan turned away before he gave in to the urge to hit the man. “Make another key. And be quick about it!”

“Three must copy it again.”

“What?” He swung back to face the Guardian. “You don’t have the cast?”

“I destroyed it. Like you, I didn’t wish to be found with incriminating evidence.”

He stared at the man. Dismay held him speechless for a moment. He swallowed. “Three must trick the Consort again.”

“She had no difficulty last time.”

Athan shook his head.

“She can copy the key tomorrow. You’ll have it in three days, four at the most.”

If it was just him, he’d turn on his heel and go.
Not without Three. We leave together—or not at all.

Athan forced his fists to unclench, his hands to relax. “Get me the key and I’ll try again.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “Once.”

He glanced at the door to the storeroom. It was still shut. How much longer would she be?

“Don’t wait for her,” the Guardian said. “Go.”

“Why?” He jerked his head around to glare at the man. His hands clenched again. “So I can’t talk with her?”

“It doesn’t matter whether you speak with her or not,” the Guardian said coldly. “Three’s no fool. She won’t leave until I allow her. She knows she has no chance without my help.”

I am the fool.

Athan exhaled through his teeth again, hissing. He turned away from the man and sat down on an upturned urn. “I’ll wait.”

He heard the Guardian step towards him. “It’s the night before your wedding. Get back upstairs and behave like a man about to be married!”

Druso would be looking for him, and his other acquaintances. They’d want to commiserate, to get drunk, to visit the courtesans’ salon.

“You jeopardize your cover. And you jeopardize hers. Get up there now!”

Athan stood abruptly. His hands were clenched, his teeth.
If I didn’t need you, I’d kill you.

He swung away from the Guardian and strode across the chamber. The shadows pulled back and flared in his wake. Instinct told him he was making a mistake; reason told him he had to do this. Abandoning Three wasn’t an option.

And so I capitulate.

“In two nights,” he heard the Guardian say.

Two nights. Not one. Because tomorrow night—

Tomorrow night I’ll be bedding Lady Petra.

Athan jerked open the door to the sewers and stepped down. The door swung shut behind him. It was utterly black.

He stood for a moment, wrestling with himself.
I don’t have to go back.
It would be simple to walk down to the town, to leave.

Not without Three.

He turned and began to trudge up the sloping tunnel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

S
ALIEL LEANED HER
weight against the slab of rock. It pivoted.
The last time.
She walked across the storeroom with her hands outstretched.
The last time.

The door opened with a gritty sound. She paused on the threshold, relief swelling in her chest, and looked for One.

The Guardian stood alone in the candlelight. Saliel closed the door and walked towards him. “I saw three shooting stars tonight.”

“I saw none.” The Guardian’s voice was expressionless.

“Where’s One?” She sat on an upturned urn and clasped her hands together, aware of anticipation, apprehension. Who was he?
Please, not Lord Tregar.

“He’s gone back to the Citadel.”

Saliel stiffened. “What?”

“He didn’t copy the code book,” the Guardian said, his voice cold and precise. “The key broke in the lock. You must make another impression.”

She stared at him.

“You must make another impression,” he repeated.

“I can’t.” She shook her head. “You know I can’t!”

“You must.”

“But I marry Lord Ivo tomorrow. I have to leave!”

“Not until the code book is copied.”

Horror made her mute; her throat was too tight for speech. She shook her head again.

“Yes.” The Guardian strode to the storeroom. Stone grated against stone as he opened the door. “You must go back.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t stand, couldn’t open her mouth and speak.

The Guardian left the door open. He came back, his cloak swirling, and grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Get back up to the Citadel!” His voice was fierce. “Copy the key again!”

Saliel tried to pull away. “No.”

“Yes!” The Guardian’s grip tightened painfully.

Her horror became panic. She tried to wrench her arm free. “I can’t marry Lord Ivo. I can’t!”

The Guardian released her so suddenly that she almost fell. The sound he made was contemptuous. “Don’t tell me you haven’t spread your legs for a man before.”

Saliel’s head jerked back. For long seconds she couldn’t breathe. “What? What did you say?”

“You’re from the Ninth Ward. Don’t tell me you haven’t whored before.”

No. Never.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“A poorhouse foundling. Wearing velvet and lace and eating sweetmeats for lunch.” The Guardian made a spitting sound beneath his black hood.

The words, the tone of his voice, made her flinch inside herself. “How long have you known?” It was a whisper.

The Guardian snorted, derisive. “I’ve always known.” He grabbed her arm again. “Get back up there and spread your legs. Earn the money Laurent is paying you.” He yanked her towards the storeroom.

A scream swelled inside her, filling the space in her chest. The chamber was a blur. The floor slid away beneath her feet.

Saliel stumbled and fell to her knees. The Guardian didn’t release his grip. He jerked her upright. “Which suite are you in?”

No words came out of her mouth. She shook her head.

“Tell me!” The Guardian shook her, his fingers digging into her arm. “Which suite in the married quarters will you be in?
Tell me!
”

She tried to twist her arm free, but his fingers tightened. A breath of pain hissed between her teeth. “In the second corridor.” Her voice was thin. “Towards the end.”

“On the eastern or western side?”

She struggled to think past the pain. His fingers felt as if they dug into the bone. “Eastern.”

The Guardian’s grip on her arm relaxed. “Good.” He released her. “There’s a passage running inside the eastern wall. All the rooms on that side have access to it.”

Saliel rubbed her arm, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain.

“You should have no trouble finding the door. You know what to look for.”

She opened her eyes.

“Inside,” the Guardian said, pushing her towards the storeroom.

Saliel grabbed the doorframe to stop from falling.

“A foundling from the Ninth Ward.” The Guardian made the spitting sound again.

It was familiar: the disgust, the spitting. Saliel straightened, holding on to the doorframe. Tears blurred her eyes.
I can’t go back.

“Inside!” the man said again.

“You can’t make me go back. I can leave. Now.” It was shallow bravado; her voice trembled.

The Guardian took a step back. He laughed at her. “How far will you get, foundling? With that red hair of yours.”

Saliel gripped the doorframe. “What?” The Guardian had never seen her unhooded. “How do you know?”

“You think I haven’t watched you?”

She grew even colder.
He’s seen me through the peephole. In my bedchamber
.

“You won’t last half a day,” the Guardian said. “That hair of yours is too noticeable. You need my help to escape Corhona.”

But I can’t marry Lord Ivo.

“Copy the key again and you may leave.”

She shook her head.

“Yes!” The Guardian’s voice was a shout. He hit her, striking above her breastbone.

Saliel lost her grip on the doorframe. She stumbled and fell backward.

The Guardian stepped into the doorway. “Get back up to the Citadel.” He no longer shouted. Each word was cold and precise. “You may leave once the code book is copied.”

The door swung shut. She heard a grating sound, subdued, and knew the Guardian had barred the door. The darkness was absolute.
No
, she tried to say, but her mouth couldn’t utter the word.

She lay on the floor while seconds stretched into minutes. Her breath came in choked gasps. Tears leaked from her eyes.
I can’t do it. I can’t.

Hours passed. The stone floor was cold beneath her cloak, hard. Saliel began to shiver.
Get up
, she told herself. But she couldn’t make herself stand. It would be an admission of defeat. To stand meant that she’d return to her bed, that she’d rise in the morning as Lady Petra and dressin the wedding gown.

That she would marry Lord Ivo.

That he would bed her.

That I will survive Corhona.

Survive?

What price was too great for freedom and independence? For a home?

Women had whored for less; for a mug of porter, for a crust of bread. She’d seen them in the alleys, their skirts raised above their waists. Girls from the poorhouse had done it and laughed afterwards, copper coins clenched in their fists.

If they can do it, I can. I earn more than they did. I earn my life.

After several hours Saliel pushed stiffly to her feet. She took the first step: freedom. A second step: independence. A third: a cottage. Cats sunning themselves on the doorstep. A cow to milk. Hens. A fire in the grate and smoke rising from the chimney.

Her gloved hands met the wall and slid easily into the slight hollows. Saliel closed her eyes.
I can do this. I have to.

She leaned her weight against the wall.
It’s nothing. A few minutes’ discomfort and it’ll be over. At least he’ll be clean. He won’t stink of the slums.

The stone slid aside.

Saliel took a deep breath. Tears shuddered in it, but her eyes were dry. She stepped into the catacombs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
HE MAID SCRATCHED
on the door not long after dawn. Saliel stayed where she was, curled up in the narrow bed. The woman opened the shutters, letting thin gray light into the chamber.

She watched as the maid stirred the embers in the fireplace to life and added fresh coals. The fire didn’t warm her. She shivered beneath the bedclothes. Her coldness was inside, where heat and flame couldn’t reach.

The maid left and came back with a tray, curtseying before placing it on the little table beside the bed. Saliel didn’t bother raising her head to look at it. She knew what it was: a sweet pastry and honeyed milk for her to drink.

She’d been awake all night, but she felt no urge to eat. Dread cramped in her belly, not hunger.

The maid left again and returned with a steaming basin of hot water which she placed beside the fire.

The woman busied herself with laying out the morning’s clothes. Stiff petticoats, a corset of linen and bone, a velvet gown. “Noble lady,” she said when she was finished, curtseying low. “If you please?”

Saliel’s gaze rose to the peephole. A twist of gray fabric blocked it, torn from one of her old dresses. The Guardian couldn’t watch.